Your Medic, Your Chaplain
by Fixomnia Scribble
Summary: It's their first Valentine's Day as a couple. What could possibly go wrong? A short, fluffy one-short set in Season 9.


0540 hrs, February 14, 2019

The roses arrived before she was even awake – not one but two dozen of them, a small bush of miniature red sweetheart roses ablaze in an eight-inch pottery planter of Grecian blue and a matching saucer.

She'd been pulled from the depths of sleep by the sound of footsteps in her apartment, but it was the sound of the saucer being set carefully on her clothes bureau that woke her fully. She smiled and rolled onto her back, carrying the fluffy white duvet with her.

"Morning," she murmured, blinking sleepily in the dim light from the hallway. Turning on the bedside lamp would make morning come too soon. "How was work?"

Jamie sat on the edge of the bed and leaned into kiss her. "Long. No surprises. Any room for me?"

"Mm. Get in quick."

He quickly shed the top layers of his off-duty clothes, down to his warm boxer-briefs and long-sleeved tee, and slid under the covers, gathering her up. She shrieked and pretended to fend him off as his cold feet found the warmth of her legs, and he nuzzled her throat with his overnight stubble.

"Jerk," she told him fondly, as they came to rest, limbs tangled, grinning and breathless, his head upon her breast.

"Happy Valentines," he answered her, and touching her chin, urged her down for another kiss.

"Happy Valentines," she agreed, smiling against his mouth, and kissed him a few more times, for good measure.

She might have morning breath and need a shower, and he might have post-night-shift breath and a scratchy beard, but it really didn't matter. Twelve hour stakeout shifts in an enclosed patrol car turned out to have been good practice for real life, as it turned out.

She rolled her head towards the roses, idly stroking his hair under her hand. "Our first real Valentine's Day. Nobody ever bought me living roses before. Thank you."

"And they're just your size. _Kidding_!" he yelped, as her fingers closed meaningfully on his earlobe. "—kind of. I mean, they're small, but they're perfect. Like you."

"Good save, Reagan." She relented on his ear, but tapped her fingertips on his cheek thoughtfully. "Let me guess: everywhere was out of long-stemmed roses."

"_Totally_ out," he confessed in a rush, and she gave way to gales of laughter. "People order them like two months in advance now! I had no idea. It's been a long time since I did this."

"Aw. But you did so good. I love them. Honest. And I love that they'll be alive for a long, long time."

She cuddled him close, and for a long, sweet moment, they just breathed in the quietude together. She nosed his hair and his arm tightened comfortably over her hip.

Then she sneezed, managing to turn away just in time.

"Oh, my God, I'm sorry," she gasped, sitting up and reaching for the tissues on the table. He rolled hurriedly out of her way.

"No, no. You missed me. I – "

She sneezed again. "Oh, shit."

"You okay? I thought you seemed a bit warm. But you're a furnace anyway, so…"

"I'm fine." She blotted her nose. "See? Just a tickle. C'mon. You need dinner before you crash, and I need breakfast. You don't want to wake up with the low blood sugar shakes."

The real Valentine's Day celebrations would come later. After Jamie had slept off a week of night shifts, and after she had come home from her day shift and was on her days off too, they had reservation at The River Café, one of Brooklyn Heights' fanciest and nicest dinner-date spots, for a five-course prix-fixé meal and lingering drinks over live jazz.

It was something of an inside joke with a long, long payoff, and the joke was on them. Four years before, they had nearly booked a Valentine's Day table at The River Café, just two singles sharing a nice meal so neither would have to be alone. It wasn't cheap, but they were fast becoming good buddies, and they'd just successfully testified and put away their first real live murderer together, so – why not? They could treat themselves, have fun, and play-act being on a date so hard that they could laugh at what a ridiculous idea it would be.

They were both pretty broke, when it came down to it. Other priorities came before a four hundred dollar meal. A shared pizza at a tiny Nonna-run place with schmoozy light Italian opera playing and tall red Sacred Heart candles on the tables was a pretty great substitute. Nonna had benevolently yelled at Jamie to give her the single rose on the table beside the candle, and he had, looking anywhere but at her eyes.

Which might have been why, when they ended up kissing a few weeks after that, the fact that he couldn't take his eyes off her sent a thrum of warning through her as much as an unexpectedly intense tingle. Her T.O. was a man who felt things _deep_, when he got around to it, and he'd blundered closer to the edge than he realized, drunk or not. And she wasn't sure what she wanted to do about him, either.

And here they were, years later, still blundering along. They both had plenty of plans and ideas, but the only thing they knew for certain was that wherever they ended up, they wanted to get there together. It was enough for now.

* * *

1030 hrs, February 14, 2019

_Hey. Call me when you wake up. Not urgent. 3 _

* * *

1342 hrs, February 14, 2019

_Just checking in. You might have been right. Not feeling great._

* * *

1402 hrs, February 14, 2019

_Oh, this sucks so bad. I am so sorry. Why today of all days?_

* * *

1402 hrs, February 14, 2019

After a hard seven hours of sleep, he was rested enough that the chime of his phone penetrated his consciousness, and he reached for it by instinct. Squinting to focus on the screen, he scrolled through his messages, and his heart jumped. Eddie sick? Eddie _admitting_ she was sick, on a day they'd been looking forward to since before the new year?

He sat up, scrubbed a hand over his face to try to wake up some more, and texted back.

_Just up. You off at 3 still? Want me to pick you up?_

_Could you please? I feel like shit._

He frowned. This was not a sniffle.

_Stay at the house. You and Mia shuffle papers for a bit. Sarge's orders. On my way._

Setting his phone back on Eddie's nightstand, he swung his legs out from the warm bed, tried to wake up his jet-lagged self some more, and grinned at the sweetheart roses as he headed for the bureau. Next year, Eddie would have whatever she wanted, be it roses, another orchid for her collection, breakfast in bed, a practice session at the shooting gallery, dinner and dancing…

_Should cancel dinner right away_, he reminded himself, pulling out clean clothes. _They'll have a waiting list for sure._

The host was very gracious, and assured him that they would have no problem filling the table. He hoped to meet them soon, and gently suggested that the next open reservations were in early April.

Which gave Jamie pause for thought, as he continued dressing. If not The River Café, then what? Eddie was going to need a proper meal in her, and probably need a stash of comfort food. Thankfully, they had a worlds' worth of take-out and delivery options nearby, but it would be nice to find something a little special for tonight.

He was halfway to the two-nine when the idea hit him.

He pulled over, and after a quick web search, placed a call.

He was grinning again a few minutes later, back on his way to Eddie.

* * *

1623 hrs, February 14, 2019

"Partner, you good?"

Jamie poked his head in the bedroom door, and nodded approvingly as he saw her wrapped in her big shawl and propped up with pillows, so it was easier for her to breathe and cough. On her bedside table were a piping hot mug of Neo Citran, more tissues, and a pack of Halls of fry-your-nose-hairs strength.

"I'm good," she croaked. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said patiently, for the tenth time, as he came to sit on the bed. He gestured to the medicine on the table.

"It's still too hot," she explained, in a rasp. "Jamie, what if I get you sick, too?"

"Then we'll really be busted at work," he shrugged. "It was going to happen sometime soon. Don't worry. And you don't need to talk. It looks like it hurts."

She wrinkled her nose and nodded ruefully. He nodded back.

"I've got dinner on the way. Something special."

_I don't have much appetite_, she thought sadly, but he was ahead of her already.

"Don't worry if you don't feel like eating. It'll keep. But I think you'll want some of this, and it'll do you good."

_Okay_, she thought, curious. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, fevery and all, and got up. She watched him puttering and tidying up his drawer in the bureau, while she scrolled her usual social media feeds on her phone, and thought, _this is really nice. Just being here like this. Even if I'm sick_.

Her apartment buzzer sounded just then, and Jamie loped off to answer it. She heard a male voice, and then a jovial exchange before the door closed again. Then came the sounds of Jamie pulling down plates and things in the kitchen, and the most wonderful rich smell permeating the whole apartment, even to her nose in its current state.

It wasn't long before he came back. He had improvised a decently-sized bed tray from her one large cookie sheet with a tea-towel spread over it. On the tray was a bowl of chicken soup with thick homemade egg noodles, chunks of tender chicken, white beans and bright carrot coins, and a diagonally-cut slice of a hot baguette, dripping with garlic and herb butter.

It looked heavenly.

"Think you can get that down?"

_Oh, yes._

She nodded happily and blew him a kiss, and started to spoon up some soup.

"Know where it's from?" he went on. She tilted her head, and then shrugged, giving up.

"It's from the pizza place we went to on our very first Valentine's Day as partners," he said. A look of glee spread across his face at her surprise. He went on: "I explained to them it was our first Valentine's Day as a couple. And I told them you were sick and I wanted to take care of you a little. So there's a big thing of Nonna's chicken soup, like twice again what you've got there, and a prosciutto and basil and mushroom pizza you can work on whenever you're up to it, _and_ – " he paused, very pleased with himself, "Nonna's lasagne. Also tiramisu and gelato, because it's Valentine's Day, and it'll feel good on your throat. All you gotta do is rest up for a few days, get stoned on cold medicine, and eat when you're hungry. Mia's riding with Atherton till you're back."

Her jaw had dropped partway through this speech, and she remembered to close it and put her spoon safely back down.

"I didn't even think you remembered that place," she whispered.

"Of course I remembered it. I just didn't think you'd want me remembering it with any particular significance. Until now."

She beamed at him.

"We don't need fancy clothes or a fancy dinner to be romantic on V-Day," he went on. "We have everything we need for that. Reality's pretty great as it is."

He cleared his throat. Frowned. Cleared his throat more carefully.

Then he coughed, and winced slightly.

Their eyes met in synchronized realization.

She lifted the tray carefully from her lap and moved to what had become her side of the bed, and looked invitingly at the empty spot as she resettled herself.

"Looks like this is gonna be home base for a while. Better get yourself some food," she whispered.

He sighed, nodded, and got slowly to his feet, patting her knee as he did.

"Nobody else I'd rather get gross and germy and garlicky with, Janko."

"Love you," she mouthed back at him.

"Love you, too."


End file.
